


A Need and an Ecstasy

by Anarfea



Series: That Which Has Been Your Delight Universe [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Greg Lestrade, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Bonding, Fisting, Flashbacks, Implied/Referenced Incest, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mycroft is a 'bad survivor', Omega Mycroft, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, past Mycroft/Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-03-07 02:56:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13425255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarfea/pseuds/Anarfea
Summary: Mycroft’s brows knit. “It isn’t fair that I shared one of the most intensely intimate things one can experience with Sherlock and not you.”“I know.” said Greg. “I’m sorry.”“Don’t be sorry. Be brave.” Mycroft brushed his fingers across Greg’s cheekbone. “Give me a chance to have that with you. Please.”





	A Need and an Ecstasy

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place between chapters 15 and 16 of _That Which Has Been Your Delight_. I would of course be delighted if you read that fic, but this one also stands alone.
> 
> * * *
> 
>  
> 
> “Go to your fields and your gardens, and you shall learn that it is the pleasure of the bee to gather honey of the flower,  
> But it is also the pleasure of the flower to yield its honey to the bee.  
> For to the bee a flower is a fountain of life,  
> And to the flower a bee is a messenger of love,  
> And to both, bee and flower, the giving and the receiving of pleasure is a need and an ecstasy.”
> 
> \--Kahlil Gibran, [On Pleasure](http://www.katsandogz.com/onpleasure.html), from _The Prophet_

Greg kissed Mycroft above his eyebrow. “I just don’t see what would change if we were bonded. We already belong to each other in every way that matters.” He carried the bowl of popcorn into the home theater. Mycroft followed him, quiet in the way that meant he disagreed but didn’t want to argue.

Greg didn’t want to argue, either, but if Mycroft pushed it, he wasn’t going to back down. Because really, what they had was wonderful. Mycroft was a devoted and affectionate partner, always managing to fit time for them into his busy schedule and never complaining about Greg’s. They meshed together, enjoyed one another’s company. The sex was good when it was good for Mycroft, which was most of the time, these days. As long as Greg colored within the lines, stuck to the familiar, let Mycroft lead. Why mess with a good thing? And for what? The opportunity to knot an omega in heat? So people would know by smell that he and Mycroft were together? It wasn’t worth it.

“Bonding matters to me,” said Mycroft.

Of course it did. Mycroft was a formal man, and he wanted a formal commitment. Greg had stopped thinking Mycroft would leave him years ago, but in some ways he was more bothered by the idea that Mycroft would stay even if he wasn’t happy. And he suspected that Mycroft was… maybe _unhappy_ was too strong a word for it, but it was clear shacking up was no longer enough for him. Greg had thought about asking Mycroft to marry him for their third anniversary, but he’d thought better of it. It might draw attention to the fact that they weren’t bonded. Besides, Greg didn’t particularly want to remarry.

“I want to bond with you,” Mycroft continued. “And I especially don’t want to _not_ bond with you because I’m afraid.”

Greg got the feeling they weren’t going to be watching _Casablanca_ tonight, after all. “With good reason. Mycroft, if we shared a heat….”

Mycroft was sure to have some kind of PTSD response. He might relive his rape, lash out, and attack Greg. That was actually better than his other response, which was to dissociate and go through the motions of sex. Greg was better at catching that now, learning to spot when Mycroft wasn’t there and stop. But in the beginning, a few times he’d messed up and kept going, chasing Mycroft into himself. Mycroft had retreated for days, going through life like a robot, presumably doing what needed doing at work but coming home late and going straight to bed, curling into a ball as far from Greg as possible and flinching if touched. It always frightened him when Mycroft got like that.

“I just don’t see how a few biological and social perks are worth what it would do to you.”

“A bond is more than a ‘perk,’ Greg. It’s an intensely intimate physical and psychological connection, and I want to have that level of connection with you. Besides, you don’t know what would happen. I admit it’s a possibility everything would go badly, but not a certainty. It’s been years since I’ve been triggered by sex with you.”

“Yes, because I’m very careful not to do things I know trigger you.”

Mycroft had told Greg never to touch the scar on the back of his neck, or to flip him onto his hands and knees, or (and this was the one that broke Greg’s heart) to bring him breakfast in bed. Greg had discovered other things on his own. Mycroft disliked being ‘little spoon.’ He wouldn’t share the shower. He always refused Greg’s offers of blowjobs but gave them enthusiastically. He supposed all of these could be written off as preferences, but there was always a tense quality in Mycroft’s spine when something bothered him but not enough to ask Greg to stop. Besides, Greg knew Mycroft wasn’t naturally sexually reserved. He still remembered the very brief period he only thought of as ‘before.’ The first time Mycroft had kissed him, Greg had grabbed him by the lapels, pushed him against the wall, and snogged him until neither of them could breathe. The first night they’d spent together, they’d stumbled into bed tearing off one another’s clothes. He wouldn’t dream of handling Mycroft that way now. He hated Sherlock for taking that away from them. He hated himself for missing it.

“If you want to bond,” Greg continued, “I will have to do at least some of those things.”

“Not necessarily.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well for starters--” he flushed. Mycroft always got flustered talking about sex. “We could stay face to face. I could sit in your lap and you could bite me from over my shoulder.

Greg turned to face him. “You’ve really thought about this.”

“Of course I’ve thought about this. I know it’s potentially traumatizing, not just to me but to you. I wouldn’t be suggesting it if I didn’t think we could come out of it unscathed.”

“Okay, but I’d still--well I guess technically I don’t _have_ to knot you. It’d be difficult, not to, but I think I could--”

“I want you to knot me. I’ve masturbated to the thought of you knotting me.”

God, when Mycroft talked that way it almost made Greg want it. If he were honest with himself, he did want it. But he didn’t _need_ it, and that was the important thing. “That’s… hella flattering. But I'm still afraid I might--I’m not trying to make any excuses for any alpha’s behavior, but heat pheromones are a powerful drug, and I haven’t been exposed to them in decades. And I’m afraid. Not just for you, but... of me.” He sounded like he was saying he wouldn’t be able to control himself. Like he was saying Sherlock hadn’t been able to control himself. He hoped Mycroft could understand. “If I’m going to do this with you, I have to be two hundred percent certain I can stop whatever I’m doing the instant you ask, and I’m not sure that I can, and I’d never forgive myself if I….”

“You’d stop.”

And that was what made this so terrifying. Mycroft’s blind faith in him. Ever since they’d read about the nickname on John’s blog, Greg’s coworkers at NSY had taken to calling Mycroft ‘Ice Man,’ but the truth was, Mycroft, underneath it all, was… vulnerable. At least with certain people. Sometimes the wrong people. And Greg would never forgive himself if he betrayed the trust Mycroft had placed in him.

“What if I don’t? What if I _can’t_? If I knot you, we’re stuck that way until the swelling goes down. I won’t be able to pull out, even if you want me to.”

“That’s okay.”

“What do you mean, ‘That’s okay’? It’s _not_ okay.”

“The fear and pain would be temporary. Our bond would be for a lifetime.”

“I’m already yours for a lifetime. I thought you knew that.”

“I do. But it isn’t--”

“Enough?” asked Greg. It stung.

Mycroft’s brows knit. “I was going to say ‘fair.’ It isn’t fair, that I shared one of the most intensely intimate things one can experience with Sherlock and not you.”

“I know.” said Greg. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. Be brave.” Mycroft brushed his fingers across Greg’s cheekbone. “Give me a chance to have that with you. Please.”

Greg sighed. There was no way he could refuse Mycroft when he put it like that. “I want to build up to it. Let’s try sharing a heat first. If you start to panic, I’m stopping. I’ll take fast acting suppressants and let you ride it out with toys or however you manage on your own.”

Mycroft grimaced, clearly not thrilled by that prospect.

“If it goes well, we can try again, and bond then.”

“I’d rather get it over with as quickly as possible. Bond me the first time. If I panic, I panic. At least it’s over with. And if it goes well, we have the rest of the heat to enjoy the bond.”

“No. You can’t ask me to push through if you’re….” struggling, biting, hyperventilating, crying. “No.”

“You’re being condescending. I’m telling you what I want. Listen to _me_ , not some broken part of me I can’t even control.”

“Mycroft. There are certain things I can’t do, and it’s not fair of you to ask me to do them. Any more than it would be fair of me to ask you to do something that made you uncomfortable.”

Mycroft crossed his arms. “Fine. If I panic, we stop. But I want you to promise to try again if the first time doesn’t work. If I think I have only one shot at this, I’ll be too anxious.”

Greg winced. The last thing he wanted was to drag this out for months, to use all his holiday on traumatizing sex. “We can try a few times. But at some point, if it gets too upsetting _for either of us_ , we stop.”

Mycroft nodded, but the set of his jaw meant he would fight to keep trying until he got what he wanted.

Greg loved Mycroft’s strong will. He did. He just hated being on the opposite side of it.

 

* * *

 

Four days off long term suppressants, and his heat hadn’t come. Mycroft was panicking. He’d taken too long to acclimate to the idea of bonding again, and now he was too late. Menopause had come for him, and taken with it the possibility of his ever being bonded to his partner.

Greg had the audacity to look relieved.

“It isn’t fair.” Mycroft had already told Greg once, and now he was repeating it, like a child.

_Life isn’t fair, Will._

“I know.” Greg pulled him into a hug. “And I’m sorry.”

Mycroft buried his nose in Greg’s neck. With the suppressants cleared from his system, Greg smelled delicious. But that was all.

On the fifth day, Mycroft returned to work.

Anthea said nothing, but her sympathetic looks made Mycroft’s stomach twist. She’d known he’d taken time off to share a heat with Greg, she could deduce from his countenance that it had not gone successfully, and she was sorry for them. She heartily approved of their relationship now that Mycroft had come clean with her and told her the truth: that Greg was not the father of Michael, Mycroft’s son--that he hadn’t abandoned them, as she had once assumed--as Mycroft had shamefully let her believe. He couldn’t quite bring himself to explain the true story, that Sherlock had raped him, forced him to carry the child, and then stolen him, passed him off as John’s, naming Mycroft a surrogate. But Mycroft suspected Michael’s continued strong resemblance to Sherlock and Mycroft’s own estrangement from his son and brother told her the rest. They never spoke of it, any more than they spoke of Anthea’s own parentage, but Mycroft knew that she, a child of rape herself, understood.

Still, he couldn’t bring himself to speak to her about his latest disappointment. He wasn’t sure a beta could understand his razor-keen grief that they’d been unable to bond. It was true it didn’t hold a candle to his earlier loss of Michael, but it also seemed particularly bitter that the universe had taken this from him as well. His stomach twisted again. He’d been nauseated all afternoon. So much so he’d been unable to eat lunch.

At half past two, he was dizzy and lightheaded as well. He unfastened his top button and loosened his tie, trying to release the heat from the back of his neck. Heat. Sweat beading on his skin, dampness in his underwear and sweet relief that yes, it was actually happening combined with the horrific realization that he was still at work.

Mycroft moaned aloud, slumping back in his chair and pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes.

“Anthea?”

She appeared in the doorway.

“Sir?”

“I need a car with a beta driver. And clear my schedule.”

Mycroft was practically writhing in the backseat of the town car by the time he made it home. He opened the door himself and leapt out, ignoring the driver standing at its side. His face burned when he thought of the slick which had soaked through his pants and trousers down to the leather seats. At least the suit he’d worn today was dark. And the drivers of MI5’s motorpool were hired for their discretion as much as their ability to drive in reverse through cone slaloms while being shot at with blanks.

He jogged up the drive to his house, cursing all the layers of security between him and his bedroom. When the door at last swung open, the foyer was frustratingly empty.

His phone pinged.

**Sorry love I’m stuck in traffic. Will be there asap. Xx**

Mycroft bit back a whimper. He’d hoped to find Greg waiting at the door to divest him of his clothes. Instead, he set about the task himself, pulling his tie over his head tossing it in the hallway. He made quick work of his shirt buttons and threw the shirt on the floor as well. Mycroft had never done anything like this, leaving a trail of clothing to the bedroom, but perhaps this would heighten Greg’s arousal and help him get over any apprehension he still felt about sharing a heat.

His shoes went next, followed by his socks and trousers. He left his pants in a wet heap by the bedroom door and climbed atop the bed, rolling onto his belly and rutting against the mattress, reaching his fingers down until he found the slick ring of his vent.

It wasn’t enough. Cursing, he pulled himself out of bed and ransacked through his closet shelves until he found the hatbox of toys. There was no time to charge anything, so he put the vibrators aside and selected a black silicone ribbed phallus with a fist-sized knot. It had been decades since Mycroft had used this specific toy, as it required his being in heat to accommodate it. He remembered it being his favorite; he hadn’t remembered it being quite so big. Even looking at it made his mouth water.

Mycroft carried the box to his bedside, plugged in one of the vibrators as a back up, and lay on his back, teasing his vent with his fingers again to gather enough slick to lubricate the toy’s head. He probed his entrance slowly, rocking his hips up rather than thrusting it inside himself, letting his muscles grip and release around the ridges of the toy one by one. What he wanted was the knot, but he knew better than to try to take it yet. A part of him wanted to wait for Greg’s. Another part of him wanted it in him now.

He closed his eyes, acclimating to the toy’s girth, feeling the walls of his vent stretch and relax. He began to thrust in an easy, languid rhythm, gripping the dildo with one hand and stroking his cock with the other. He’d hated his heats as a teen--the lack of control, the _mess_ , the animalistic desire to be taken. Once he’d gone on long-term suppressants, he’d never wanted to suffer through one again. But waiting for Greg was not as frustrating as he had imagined. In fact, he was glad for the opportunity to sink into the heat alone, to grow comfortable in his hyper-sensitive skin. He took a deep breath in and exhaled slowly, pushing the toy in to the knot, curling his toes against the mattress.

 

* * *

 

Greg could smell Mycroft in the silk tie he picked up off the floor. A warm, resin scent, just faintly sweet, like sandalwood. He slung the tie over his arm and took a few steps towards the discarded white shirt. The perspiration on the collar and armpits smelled even more strongly and was tinged faintly with musk. Greg’s cock twitched in his pants.

He gathered the rest of Mycroft’s clothes in his arms as he made his way to the bedroom, only to drop them in a pile and trip over them as he walked in the door. Mycroft was lying atop the bed, legs spread, knees in the air, fucking himself with an enormous black dildo. And the sweet, spicy scent he’d smelled in Mycroft’s clothes was pouring off him in waves, filling Greg’s nostrils.

He swallowed. “Oh, my God. Mycroft. You have no idea how….” he stepped forward, unbuttoning his buttons as he went, pausing at the edge of the bed. “Fuck. You’re beautiful.”

Mycroft pulled the dildo out and let his knees fall open, revealing the slick, open ring of his vent. His thighs were shiny with his own lubrication. “Please, Greg.” He set the toy down and reached out with sticky hands. “I need you.”

“Okay.” Greg was fully hard, now. He sat on the bed next to Mycroft and twined their fingers together. “I’m here. And God knows there’s nothing I want more than to be inside you, but we have to take it slow.”

Mycroft let go of Greg’s hand and unfastened the button of his cuff. “You need to be naked.”

Greg chuckled. He did the other cuff and slipped his shirt off. Mycroft was already grasping for his belt. Greg let him unfasten his trousers and shucked them down his hips together with his pants, pausing to untie his shoes while Mycroft scowled in displeasure.

“Just give me a moment.”

“I’ve been waiting for three years.”

Greg kicked his shoes and pulled his socks off. “I know.” He lay down next to Mycroft and brushed his fingers down the side of his face. “I’ve been waiting for you, too.”

Mycroft kissed him, messily, passionately, and he tasted like he smelled.

Greg groaned. He wanted to cover Mycroft. Pin him down and _take_ him. And that was… exactly the wrong thing to want.

He reached over Mycroft and opened the drawer to his nightstand, fumbling for a condom.

Mycroft snatched the packet from him and tore it open.

Greg turned onto his back and shuddered as Mycroft rolled the condom down onto his cock, squeezing his rising knot through the loose folds of latex. “I think you should--”

Mycroft straddled Greg and slid down onto his cock.

“Fuck. That. Yes.” He fought the urge to snap his hips up and lay still, watching as Mycroft shivered and closed his eyes.

Mycroft sank down slowly, then bent forward and scented Greg’s neck. “You smell indescribable.” He licked along Greg’s jawline.

“So do you.”

Mycroft rocked forward and back, riding him, and Greg let his fingers ghost along his hips, skim his buttocks. Mycroft squeezed his internal muscles, and he was so hot and wet and open and all of Greg’s memories of heat paled in comparison to having Mycroft’s slick vent surround him. Waves of pleasure crested with Mycroft’s every movement. His knot was swelling, and as it grew, so did the urge to grab Mycroft by the hips and pull him down on it.

He dropped his hands to his sides and then raised them above his head.

Mycroft leaned forward and twined their fingers together, holding Greg’s hands down, and if that wasn’t the hottest thing in the world he wasn’t sure what was.

“Do you want to knot me?”

Mycroft might as well have asked him if he wanted to breathe. Still, he answered, “No.”

Mycroft arched an eyebrow.

“You’re running this show. When you’re ready, knot yourself.”

Mycroft closed his eyes and plunged downwards, tying them.

Greg gasped, squeezing Mycroft’s hands, and then he was coming.

Mycroft came, too, his vent clamping down on Greg’s knot. He slumped forward, face scrunched into a rictus. He dug his nails into the backs of Greg’s hands, clawing until he peeled up skin. That was the first indication Greg had that something was wrong. Fuck. This was exactly the thing he’d been afraid of. Mycroft was tied to him, and panting, eyes squeezed shut and clearly panicking.

Mycroft started to pull up.

Greg grabbed him by the hips, holding him in place. “Don’t. You’ll hurt yourself.”

Mycroft twisted in his grasp, struggling and bucking, and Greg realized he might possibly be making it worse. He let go.

Mycroft jerked up onto his knees and tore himself free with a cry. The condom slipped off Greg’s knot, and he snatched at the ring with his fingers before it could roll up the shaft of his cock. Every instinct told him to pull Mycroft into his arms, however he suspected that might only send him into a deeper spiral.

Instead, he went for the nightstand again and opened the bottle of suppressants. He didn’t particularly want to mount Mycroft, having just had an orgasm, but the sooner he put a stop to this rut, the better. He dropped a pill under his tongue.

Mycroft rolled onto his side and curled into a tight ball, hugging his knees to his chest.

Greg placed a hand on Mycroft’s shoulder. He flinched, and Greg pulled it away.

“I’m sorry,” said Mycroft. “You wanted to go slow, and I--”

“Went into heat when I wasn’t here for you and got yourself worked up. This is not your fault. If anything, it’s mine. Whatever I did that triggered you, I’m sorry.”

“Knot yourself,” whispered Mycroft.

Shit. Sometimes he wished that Mycroft would just tell him everything Sherlock had done to him, so that he’d know what he should avoid, but he could hardly ask Mycroft to divulge every degrading detail. He’d learned most of Mycroft’s triggers, but every once in a while, there was something he’d never considered which blew up in his face.

“I’m sorry,” said Greg.

“Not your fault.”

“Are you hurt?”

“I’ll be fine.”

Greg took that for a ‘yes.’ “Can I do anything to help?”

Mycroft rolled to face him, and that was something, anyway. “Let me scent you.”

They had done this before. Greg lay on his back with his left arm outstretched, and Mycroft sidled up to him, nosed at Greg’s armpit, then inhaled. Greg wrapped his arm around Mycroft’s shoulders.

“God, you smell… like you. But so much moreso. It’s driving me mad.” Mycroft climbed higher up Greg’s torso and nuzzled his neck. He draped one leg over Greg’s and pressed up against his thigh, and fuck, his cock was hard and his vent was _dripping._

Greg himself was soft. Fast-acting suppressants worked on multiple fronts--they blocked the brain’s receptors to pheromones, as did all suppressants, but they contained additional agents which prevented erections and curbed libido. He was aware of the scents of omega and sex filling the bedroom, but they were pale imitations of their former selves, about as appealing as a perfumed strip in a magazine. He suspected his own pheromones were subdued as well, though Mycroft was apparently still finding traces of them in his sweat. He licked Greg’s ear and sniffed at his temple.

“I need you,” Mycroft murmured. “Please. I know I fucked this up. But you can’t…. Don’t leave me like this.”

There was no equivalent of a fast-acting suppressant for omegas. Heats could be prevented, but if they started, there was no stopping them. Greg had said before that if things went wrong he’d leave Mycroft with his toys, but looking at his face, open and soft and frightened, he knew it would be cruel to make him to ride it out alone.

“I won’t leave you.”

Mycroft’s shoulders slumped in relief.

“But I’m afraid I’m not much use.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Alphas. I don’t need your knot.” He grasped Greg’s hand and positioned it against his vent. “Touch me.”

Greg frowned. “You’re sure I won’t hurt you.”

“I’m fine.” Mycroft rocked against Greg’s fingers. “Please.”

Greg traced the rim of Mycroft’s vent with his finger, slicking it. Mycroft hissed. Greg pulled the finger back, unsure if Mycroft was signalling pain or pleasure, until Mycroft arched towards his hand. Then he kissed Mycroft’s forehead, flattened his palm against Mycroft’s vent, making slow circles.

Mycroft shuddered. “Inside. Please, I….”

Greg crooked two fingers and penetrated Mycroft gently, pushing past the ring of muscle, which squeezed around him. Mycroft gasped, and Greg took the opportunity to kiss him.

Mycroft moaned, undulating his hips and pushing up into Greg’s fingers. “More.”

Greg added a third finger, stirring him, making squelching sounds in Mycroft’s wetness.

“Fuck. Don’t tease!”

Greg arched an eyebrow. “You aren’t serious.”

Mycroft grabbed Greg’s wrist, and Greg only just managed to tuck the pinky inside before Mycroft pushed his hand into himself. “Give it to me.”

Greg’s brows knit. This was something Sherlock had done. Or, well, that “Will” had done. He knew Mycroft compartmentalized, separated the brother he had loved from the monster who had raped him. Greg was more than a little disturbed by the knowledge that they’d had an inappropriate, incestuous relationship as children, and he knew Mycroft was disturbed as well, but those memories still weren’t…. It all happened before Sherlock had hurt him. So probably it would be okay? He would still prefer it if they could talk about this, but Mycroft was already working against his fingers, hips bucking, so he obligingly squeezed them together tight as he could, watching in awe as Mycroft pressed down, his vent swallowing them. Mycroft’s juices dripped down his wrist as he tucked the thumb.

“Yesssss…..” Mycroft threw his head back and arched up off the bed. His chest and neck were flushed pink.

Greg leaned forward and took the tip of Mycroft’s cock into his mouth, fingers conforming to the walls of Mycroft’s vent, curling into a fist. Then the muscles closed in around him, clamping down, and Mycroft shouted, flopping onto his back as he came into Greg’s mouth.

Greg swallowed Mycroft’s thin, spermless ejaculate and released his cock from between his lips.

Mycroft’s still-clenched muscles twitched against his fingers, and the blood in Mycroft’s veins pulsed around his hand. He’d never been so aware of Mycroft’s vent, not even during intercourse. There was something magical about knowing that his whole hand was in Mycroft, that Mycroft had wanted him enough to take all of it in, that his muscles were holding it there now. He felt intensely desired, even though, or perhaps because, his own desire was chemically suppressed.

Greg lay down next to Mycroft, forehead against his hip, overlooking the vista of Mycroft’s stretch-marked belly, and the joy of the moment dampened a little. Mycroft had used some sort of cream to fade the scars, but they were still there, constant reminders of the child Sherlock had stolen from them. Michael would be four in September. Mycroft hadn’t been in heat since Michael was conceived. Surely he was thinking of him, and Sherlock, and Greg still wasn’t sure why Mycroft had wanted to do this.

“I can come again if you move.” Mycroft raised his head, staring down his long nose, managing to look imperious even flushed and sticky.

Carefully, Greg pushed himself onto his elbows and knees, straddling Mycroft, one hand still inside him and fuck, that still astounded him, knowing his whole fist was in there.

He moved slowly, rotating his hand inside Mycroft, stimulating the muscles there with his knuckles.

Mycroft hummed, low and appreciative, eyes fluttering closed.

Then Greg began to move his arm forward and back, just a little bit, careful not to pull too hard on the muscles still clenched tight around his wrist. He pressed the heel of his palm into the ring where his knot would sit and Mycroft moaned. Suddenly Mycroft’s muscles clamped even tighter. His cock moved against his belly, a few dribbles of fluid escaping the tip.

“Fuck,” Greg whispered.

“In a minute,” said Mycroft. “Wait for me to relax.” He lay back again, then slowly moved his hand down his belly, sluicing his fingers through the mess before pressing them against his vent, massaging the ring around Greg’s hand.

As Mycroft rubbed himself, the muscles of his vent began to relax. Greg made bigger circles inside him, pulling his hand back further and further until it slipped free, releasing a flood of fluid down his wrist and Mycroft’s thighs. It smelled like citrus and honey and musk and come and his face was in it and his tongue was deep in Mycroft’s vent.

That was probably a bad idea. Fast-acting suppressants were designed to give an alpha a window of opportunity in which to get away from an omega in heat. They would not stand up to him putting his nose directly into Mycroft’s delicious pheromones. He had no idea how long they had before his dose wore off. It might be twenty minutes, it might be an hour. But it wouldn’t be long.

Greg forced himself to kneel up, wiped Mycroft’s and his combined juices off his chin, and reached for the pill bottle.

“Don’t,” said Mycroft. “I want to try again.”

Greg dropped another pill under his tongue and shook his head. “No. It’s better this way. I can take care of you while still being in control.”

“They’re not designed to be taken back to back like that. You’ll make yourself sick if you keep it up for more than a few hours.”

“Then I’ll be sick. I’m not leaving you and I’m not hurting you.”

“You’re being unreasonable. Do you even have enough to get through the heat?”

Greg shook the bottle and did some quick calculations. Shit. He hadn’t planned on this; he’d thought that probably they’d end up calling it off and that Mycroft would finish on his own.

“That’s what I thought. Please, when this one wears off, don’t take another. I’ll be fine.”

Greg bit his lip. “Let’s get through this one first and then we’ll see.”

Mycroft nodded, and Greg knew, then, that he would get his way. Mycroft always got his way.

 

* * *

 

Mycroft couldn’t not think of Will, of his small hand gently stroking and soothing when he’d been in all-consuming pain. But Greg’s fist had felt so good, his brain had been so soaked in endorphins, his body so lost in pleasure, that it had obliterated the guilt and shame that accompanied those memories. Despite this, he hadn’t dissociated and let his animal brain take over, as he’d done with Sherlock. He’d been bathed in Greg’s love, and that had eclipsed all negative emotion. He wondered if it could override his fear.

He needed to test it. Another manipulation, but he needed to know. He pulled Greg to him and kissed him fiercely, letting his tongue and lips speak with warmth and wet and movement what he could not let them form into words. _Love me. Forgive me. Don’t be angry with me. Please._

Greg returned the kiss, but there was still tension in his jaw and spine. He was worried. Mycroft had frightened him. He’d have to work to keep that from happening again.

Mycroft disengaged from the kiss and reached for the vibrator he’d left charging at their bedside. “Use this on me.” He handed it to Greg, “please.”

Greg kissed him gently, lowering him down onto his back, lips roaming down his jaw and neck and clavicle, sternum and nipples and navel, settling at his iliac crest. Mycroft parted his thighs, half-hoping Greg would lick between them again. It was strange, being … serviced. Knowing that Greg couldn’t respond to him sexually, that all the pleasure he derived from their encounter was vicarious. It felt more than a little lopsided, but there was something pleasing about it, too, knowing that Greg cared enough to tend to him like this. Even though it was a stupid idea, he was touched that Greg had offered to take suppressants for the whole heat so he could care for him without distraction.

Greg slipped the vibrator into Mycroft’s vent.

_If I did need to use one, I wouldn’t turn it on! I’d just help you get it in place so it will be easier for you._

He heard the words in Will’s childish voice, could see Will crouching between his legs, brows furrowed as he tried to get the vibrator in place. But it didn’t frighten him. Before, when he’d had flashbacks, it had felt like he was outside his body, watching helplessly as things happened to it or else ignoring what was happening and simply floating away. This was different. He was in his body and the memory was replaying around him but couldn’t touch him. Only Greg could touch him. He was safe.

A clicking sound, and then the vibrator buzzed inside him. Greg had switched it on low. “How’s that?” he asked.

“You’re teasing again.”

Greg smiled, turned the the vibrator all the way up, and fucked Mycroft to orgasm.

He did it again, and again, until Mycroft’s vent was numb and he begged Greg to stop.

Greg had stopped immediately, concern written large on his face.

Mycroft had smiled in a way he hoped was reassuring and stroked Greg’s damp hair “You’re too good to me.”

Greg leaned down and kissed his forehead, then flopped onto the bed next to Mycroft and kissed the back of his head.

Mycroft tucked his chin, exposing his nape. “Kiss me.”

“You’re sure?”

“I want to get used to the idea.”

Greg lay the length of his arm along Mycroft’s side, stroking his hip with his fingertips. He kissed Mycroft’s shoulder first, then the side of his neck, before finally placing his lips over Mycroft’s bonding gland and the scar Sherlock had put there.

A jolt of pleasure ran down the length of his spine, and he shivered.

Greg pulled away. Mycroft pressed into him, canting his hips back, settling into the curve of Greg’s body. “Again,” he whispered.

“I thought you didn’t like this position,” said Greg.

“I want to try.” If he said what he wanted to try, specifically, Greg would say no. So he didn’t.

Greg kissed him again, open mouthed, touching the tip of his tongue to Mycroft’s vertebrae. He gasped. Greg sucked at the gland, grazed it with his teeth, and the rhythm of his breathing against the back of Mycroft’s neck changed into something ragged. Mycroft pressed his hips back and felt the beginnings of Greg’s erection against his thigh.

“I’m sorry,” said Greg, “do you want me to--”

“Take me. Please. I need it.”

“God, when you talk like that….”

Mycroft wriggled against Greg. He knew this was unfair, but he didn’t care. He turned around, craning his neck for a kiss, and then he had what he wanted. Greg’s mouth on his, Greg’s chest against his back, Greg’s hips against his arse. Sherlock had taken him like this. Mycroft had pretended Sherlock was Greg when he’d taken him like this. He wanted the real thing, now.

“Oh fuck,” Greg broke the kiss, breathless. “If you keep doing that I’m--”

Mycroft did it again.

Greg groaned, slipped his hand down between them, and directed his cock towards Mycroft’s vent.

Mycroft pushed back, and Greg _whimpered_ as his cock slid home.

Mycroft began to rock, hand finding his own cock, and Greg finally began to move, matching Mycroft thrust for thrust.

“Harder,” Mycroft demanded, and Greg obliged, rutting into him, and yes, this was perfect. Greg’s hand was on his hip now, fingers pressing into flesh. Greg’s cock was slamming into him, knot pushing against his vent with every stroke. This was the kind of sex he’d had with Greg the first time, when they’d torn off one another’s clothes and tumbled into bed with their mouths crashing together. The kind of sex they’d never had since. After Sherlock, Greg had regarded Mycroft like unexploded ordnance and handled him accordingly. With good reason, Mycroft had to admit.

But now, sharing a heat, pleasure overrode Mycroft’s fear, and desire Greg’s concern. Mycroft let himself go, obscene noises escaping his lips as Greg claimed him.

“Want to knot you.” Greg’s words were hoarse, bitten out.

“Please.”

Greg snapped his hips hard, knot pushing past the rim of Mycroft’s vent.

Mycroft cried out, legs spasming as his vent tied them, as Greg spilled inside him. His own cock dribbled, all but spent already. He leaned back into Greg, closing his eyes.

Greg curled his body around Mycroft’s, stroking his sides, kissing his shoulder. “I love you.”

_I'm so sorry, My. I love you. I swear I never wanted--never meant--it wasn’t supposed to be like this._

But he wasn’t on the kitchen floor with Sherlock. He was in his own bed in Greg’s arms. He crossed his left hand over his chest and found Greg’s.

Greg interlaced their fingers. “I love you so much.”

Mycroft would have liked to return the sentiment, but he was unable to speak. Tears slid from beneath his closed lashes.

“Are you alright?” Greg asked.

He shifted behind Mycroft, trying to get a look without putting stress on the tie.

“Shit,” he whispered.

He’d seen Mycroft crying, then.

“I’m sorry. I should never have--”

Mycroft shook his head, squeezing Greg’s hand. He opened his eyes.

Greg was craning his neck at an awkward angle. His lips were a tight line, his brows furrowed.

“I’m fine,” Mycroft croaked. He closed his eyes again. “That was intense, is all. But good.”

His vent spasmed again, an aftershock.

Greg shivered.

“I’m still… having flashbacks. But they’re not… I know it’s you.”

Greg kissed his nape again.

“I want to bond. I can do it.”

“I want it, too. And it’s not just the biology. Seeing you like this. So determined. So brave. I want… I want for you to have what you want.”

“I love you.”

“I know. I can feel it. And it’s the most beautiful thing-- _you_ are the most beautiful thing, and I hope you know that I love you, too.”

“I do. And I’m so grateful that you’ve…. I know this hasn’t been easy for you.”

“I’m fine,” said Greg. “Except…. I didn’t wear a condom.”

_It takes multiple attempts at copulation for fertilisation._

“It is highly unlikely that a single instance of unprotected intercourse would result in pregnancy at my age.”

“Still. The last thing I wanted was for you to worry.”

“I’m not.” He wouldn’t get pregnant, and if he did, Greg would never force him to keep it. It would be fine. Mycroft’s eyelids fell closed again. His vent relaxed and Greg’s cock softened, but they stayed coupled, albeit untied. His breathing slowed, and he began to drift into Greg’s warmth.

“Sleepy?” asked Greg.

He hummed.

“Why don’t we get cleaned up, change the sheets, and then take a nap. You can have the first shower.”

Showers were out. Showers were filled with Sherlock on his knees, silently asking Mycroft to forgive the unforgivable.

“May we take a bath?” asked Mycroft. “Together?”

“Sure,” said Greg. Mycroft could hear the surprise in his voice. Four years partnered, and they had never bathed together.

“I’ll go run it.” Greg pulled out, leaving Mycroft’s thighs sticky with slick, and hauled himself out of bed.

Mycroft felt oddly bereft. After a moment, he sat up and followed Greg on unsteady legs.

Greg sat at the side of the tub, but he stood up when Mycroft entered the bathroom. The mirrored panels behind the tub reflected them back at different angles. Mycroft hated the sight of his own, scarred, sagging body, but the many images of Greg’s broad shoulders were reassuring.

Greg reached out and pulled Mycroft into a kiss. Their lips moved together slowly, sensually. Greg’s stubble was starting to grow in. It scratched at Mycroft’s chin. He didn’t care.

After the water rose, Greg took a step backwards and climbed in, offering Mycroft his hand.

Mycroft watched all the other Mycrofts take the Gregs hands and step into the water.

They sat facing each other. Greg silently poured body wash onto a sponge and set about cleaning the fluids from Mycroft’s torso. Then Mycroft turned around so Greg could wash his hair. He sighed as the warm water sluiced down over his head, moaned when Greg’s strong fingers massaged his scalp. When Greg kissed his nape, he made an embarrassing, keening sound.

Greg did it again, and again, licking and sucking the bonding gland as he held Mycroft in his arms. Waves of pleasure washed over him with every movement of Greg’s tongue.

“Do it,” said Mycroft.

Most couples bonded at the moment of knotting because orgasm blunted the pain of the bite. But it wasn’t necessary, and Mycroft knew that this was the answer, that it would be utterly different from what had happened in the kitchen. This would be deliberate. Pure.

“Please, Greg, don’t make me beg.”

“It’ll hurt,” Greg warned, but he began licking and sucking Mycroft’s nape again.

“I want it to.”

Greg’s arm tightened across Mycroft’s chest, and then he bit, hard, pressing inexorably down until his teeth broke the skin, pierced the gland below.

Mycroft shouted, squeezing Greg’s arm bruisingly hard. Tears stung his eyes. Endorphins and bonding hormones flooded his whole body until he was shaking, his blood singing, his mind floating, pleasure and pain making him vibrate like a struck gong. The grip of Greg’s arms grounded him, surrounded him, and he leaned into the solidness of Greg against his back.

After a few moments, Greg released Mycroft’s nape, then licked and suckled the wound, the coagulants in his rut saliva sealing it over. Mycroft slid down, deeper into the water, laying against Greg’s lightly furred chest. Greg kissed the top of his head. Mycroft could smell his and Greg’s scents blended together with another, the sharp and bright scent of bonding pheromones. He felt Greg’s overwhelming love, not just from without but within, from the place in his gut and his mind which Greg would occupy forever now. It was done. They were joined. He had won, triumphed over Sherlock, over his own fear. Mycroft was Greg’s, and Greg his.

 

* * *

 

As afraid as he’d been to do it, the moment his teeth had touched Mycroft’s neck it had felt _right_. The rest had been instinct. Bite down until he tasted blood. Lick the wound he’d made until the blood clotted. Mycroft had cried out, but he’d held still, and he hadn’t panicked, for which Greg was relieved.

Now Mycroft splashed in the water, sinking low, lying against Greg’s chest. Greg leaned down to inhale the scent of him. He was still honey and resin, but there was a new, warm leather note, too, which was Greg’s. The charged scent of the bond hung in the air, too. The scent after a storm.

Greg inhaled deeply, then kissed the top of Mycroft’s head. Mycroft sighed in contentment and nestled deeper into his arms. Greg held him tight.

This was what Mycroft had wanted. The sense of bone-deep rightness and peace. Of belonging. When he’d bitten Mycroft, something had clicked into place. He’d always known that Mycroft was his and he was Mycroft’s, but now he felt it in his cells. Mycroft was his mate, they were bound forever, and all was right in the world.

Bitterly, he wondered if Sherlock had felt this, too, and decided he couldn’t have. It couldn’t have felt right, to bite an omega who fought and struggled, to claim someone who hadn’t offered. He understood more deeply what Mycroft had meant when he said it wasn’t fair that he’d had this intimacy with Sherlock. The thought of Mycroft smelling of him, sensing his moods, feeling Sherlock inside his body and mind long after the act of rape (rapes, how many?) had finished…. He wanted to snap Sherlock’s neck with his bare hands.

“Stop it,” Mycroft’s reflections opened their eyes and glared at him.

“I’m sorry.”

Mycroft sighed and shifted against him. “Don’t be. I shouldn’t have…. I think about him, too. But not now. Not in this moment. This is ours.”

“And you’re mine.” Greg wasn’t sure what had driven him to say it. He considered himself an egalitarian; he was Mycroft’s as well, but biting Mycroft had made him keenly aware of the biological inequality between alphas and omegas, of how vulnerable Mycroft had made himself in accepting the bond. It would synchronize their heat-rut cycles; Greg’s rut could induce a heat in Mycroft (and vice versa, but omegas disproportionately bore the burden of heat, of pregnancy, of childbirth). Sherlock had exploited his bond with Mycroft, blackmailed him into carrying a child by threatening to drive him into heat every month so he’d be unable to work.

Greg would never do such a thing. But he could. Greg had never thought of himself as violent (although it was true he scuffled with the occasional perp). Their first serious argument had been eye-opening. Mycroft had confessed everything about his history with Sherlock, then accused Greg of shamming compassion when he hadn’t gotten angry. That _had_ made Greg angry, and he’d raised his voice, and fear had filled Mycroft’s face. Mycroft had expected Greg to hit him. That had hurt, because Greg would have cut off his own hand before striking Mycroft, and he’d lashed out and accused Mycroft of trying to make him respond like Sherlock and that had made it worse. In time, he’d come to accept that as an alpha, he did pose a threat to Mycroft, and that he would have to earn his trust. And he had, Mycroft had demonstrated that by baring his neck for him. Greg felt the weight of that trust, of the responsibility to love and care for and protect the man who’d given it. His mate.

Still, he was worried that Mycroft would interpret ‘his’ as some sort of possessive alpha gesture.

But Mycroft only smiled at him in the mirror. “Glad you staked your claim after all?”

“I was wrong. You were right. We needed this.”

“You’ve never been bonded before. You didn’t know what you were missing.”

“And I was afraid to change the status quo. Thank you. For pushing me.”

Mycroft hummed. “You can thank me later. In bed.”

“Does that mean you’ve changed your mind about the nap?”

Mycroft’s lips quirked into a smile. “I find the idea of consummating our bond… not unappealing.”

“Then why don’t you dry yourself off, and I’ll make up the bed.”

Greg stood up, water sloshing, and stepped onto the deep pile rug in front of the tub, reaching for a towel.

Mycroft attempted to follow but staggered on coltish legs. Greg lunged for him, offering a steadying arm and helping him out. He pulled Mycroft into his arms. He was shaking.

“I’m quite alright,” said Mycroft. “There’s just… the endorphins.”

Greg fetched another towel and wrapped it around his shoulders. “D’you want me to carry you?”

Mycroft’s eyebrows took offense. “Your arm will be sufficient.”

Greg offered his elbow in a rather dramatic display of chivalry. Mycroft took it without irony, letting Greg lead him back to the bedroom. Greg deposited him in a chair and fetched him another glass of water from the pitcher on the sideboard, and an energy bar from the bowl beside it. Mycroft sat and nibbled, watching as Greg stripped the bed down to the waterproof mattress cover, tossed them in the hamper with the flannels, and made the bed up again with fresh linens. He felt like a bowerbird, arranging a nest to impress his mate. As he finished fluffing the pillows, Mycroft stood slowly and walked towards him, dropping the towel into the hamper before climbing onto the bed.

He settled on all fours, parted his knees, and shot Greg a smouldering look over his shoulder. Then he lowered his head and forearms. _Presenting_. Greg stared, gobsmacked. Mycroft had never done this, had specifically listed the position among his triggers.

“Are you sure?” He lay a hand on Mycroft’s sacrum, half-expecting him to flinch.

“No,” Mycroft admitted. “I just… I want to try. I want to see if it’s different, now that we’re....”

Greg ran his hand up Mycroft’s spine. He wanted to say ‘no.’ But he’d wanted to say no to bonding, too, and he’d been wrong.

Greg kissed Mycroft’s coccyx. Mycroft’s legs trembled, but he held the pose, arse high, knees wide. Greg’s cock was intrigued, even if Greg himself was apprehensive.

“I’m not going to take you like this.”

Mycroft lifted his head to protest, but Greg cut him off.

“I will, however, give you pleasure.”

He parted Mycroft’s buttocks with his hands, leaned down, and licked up the length of Mycroft’s cleft. Honeyed, citrusy sweetness coated his tongue. Mycroft groaned. Greg pressed two fingers into Mycroft, opened them, and pushed his tongue in between, licking him again, and again, working his tongue as deep as he could inside. Mycroft’s hands clawed against the sheets, and he squirmed against Greg’s mouth.

“Do you want more?”

Mycroft pushed out a breathy, “please.”

Greg pushed in two more fingers, this time on his left hand. He spread both sets of fingers apart, opening Mycroft’s vent, and simply looked at him, spread and glistening.

“Stop,” Mycroft whispered.

Greg pulled his fingers out.

Mycroft lowered his arse, folding in on himself.

Greg put a hand on his back.

“I’m sorry,” said Mycroft.

“Don’t be. Thank you for telling me.”

“It was too much. I felt like you could see my cervix.”

Greg stroked him. “It made you feel vulnerable.”

Mycroft nodded into the mattress.

“What would make you feel safe again?”

“Hold me.”

Greg lay on the bed behind Mycroft and opened his arms, watching as Mycroft uncoiled and rolled into him.

Mycroft nosed at Greg’s armpit again, his eyes closed. “You smell like me.”

“Because I’m yours. As much as you are mine.”

“Mine,” Mycroft agreed. “Mine, all mine.” He kissed his way from Greg’s armit to his chest, brushing his lips over Greg’s nipple.

Greg wrapped an arm over Mycroft’s shoulders, pulling him close. His cock was hard against Mycroft’s thigh, and part of him wanted nothing more than to lift Mycroft onto it, to hold him tight and thrust inside him. But the urgency had lessened now that his hindbrain was confident that Mycroft was his. Mycroft would be in heat until tomorrow at least. Greg would have plenty more opportunities to cover him and take him and make him keen. Even better, he suspected that this would not be their last shared heat. That had been his first thought, that even if they managed to bond, it would be so traumatic Mycroft would never want to share a heat again. But Mycroft was laying in his arms, content.

“What are you thinking?” asked Mycroft.

“About sharing the rest of this heat with you. Sharing future heats with you.”

Mycroft smiled against his chest. “Yes. For as long as I have them, as often as you want them. I’m yours.”

Greg stroked Mycroft’s hair, fingers straying to his nape, tracing the circle of teeth marks. Mycroft sighed, hot breath blowing across Greg’s skin. Greg held Mycroft until his breath slowed and evened, until minute twitchings of his muscles indicated he’d fallen asleep. The overwhelming trust radiating from his sleeping mate was the most humbling thing he’d experienced since… since Mycroft had laid himself bare and told Greg everything. How far they’d come, since then.

“I love you,” Greg whispered into the air.

Mycroft did not reply.

Greg kissed the top of his head. His own eyelids were becoming heavy. He let them fall closed, his breath already syncing with Mycroft’s, and drifted into dream.


End file.
